


Side By Side (And Locked In Tight)

by coffeehousehaunt



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Birthday Sex, F/F, Handcuffs, Knifeplay, Kryptonite Handcuffs, PWP, Pre-smut, Spot the tropes!, Trope Fic, it's not incest if one's an alien, not in that order though, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6752695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeehousehaunt/pseuds/coffeehousehaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex has had a <i>very</i> long day, and she just wants to get drunk. OR-- </p>
<p>Alex's birthday, and kryptonite handcuffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Side By Side (And Locked In Tight)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Cop Car", by Sam Hunt. 
> 
> Also, don't mix alcohol and knives. This has been a PSA.

Alex kicks the door to her apartment closed behind her. Locks it from muscle memory. Drags herself into the dark living room. 

She bangs her shin while she's reaching for the light switch, and growls with frustration--Not sure if it's at her shin, the chair, or Hank for that last-minute "birthday prank" that turned into a real live firefight when one of the rookies—lotta new bodies lately—lost his handle on one of the Fort Rozz detainees. 

Now it's two a.m., and she feels gritty with sweat and blissfully empty from the adrenaline. Not the kind of buzz she was going for, but the night is young. 

Well. It's not _old_. Yet. 

"Happy birthday to me." She grumbles to be empty apartment, and heads for the kitchen. Fuck showering, for tonight. She has a bottle of whiskey with her name on it, and a day off tomorrow. Today. 

Provided nothing else escapes containment. 

Her brow furrows and her chin lifts. It's quiet; silent even, or as silent as the city gets. She couldn’t tell exactly what sound it was that tipped her off. 

Eliza used to joke that some of Kara's hearing must've rubbed off on Alex; she could somehow tell where Kara was, hear her even when she was trying to disappear. 

Alex always replied that no, Kara’s entire existence is loud. 

That was the easy answer. 

"Kara," She calls, voice ragged and hopefully not too irritable, "I'm about to get tanked, so if that's not your jam tonight--"

She clicks the kitchen light on and the whiskey goes right out of her mind. 

"You're gonna get flies in there if you're not careful." Kara says in a _terrible_ imitation of Eliza--she's trying too hard not to laugh at her own joke--and Alex's jaw snaps shut and she glares at Kara. 

Or at least she hopes she does. But maybe it doesn't quite reach her face, or get all the way past the lust, because Kara--

In full Supergirl costume, cape and all, sitting on a chair with her hands pulled back behind it. Kara reads the question in Alex’s face and nods. Her shoulders shift, and Alex hears the scrape of metal on the wooden back of the chair. She’s got herself at a good angle— _good girl_ , flashes through Alex’s mind—arms pulled back tight and her chest open. 

Well, she _was_ tired. 

The laughter fades from Kara's face, leaving a light that catches Alex’s breath; her chin tilts up slightly, throat working and her eyes taking in Alex's predatory half-step forward, the sudden intensity of her stare. Alex takes her in, blonde hair pooling against the blue and red of her uniform and spilling off her shoulders. The ripple of Kara’s shoulders and biceps under the blue of her costume as she twists her wrists against the cuffs absently, unconsciously. Body already yearning towards Alex. 

Without taking her eyes off Kara, Alex reaches over, pulls open the freezer, and pulls out the whiskey. She unscrews the lid and starts to lift the bottle to her mouth—and stops halfway to her lips, considering. 

Considering Kara’s exhale when the cold liquor touches her skin, still summer-warm, but sensitized to temperature. The hollow of her throat, the line of her collarbone—the stretch of Kara’s neck under Alex’s tongue. Lower. Licking fire from the hollows where that liquor pools. 

That costume’s going to get in the way, though. 

She screws the lid of the bottle back on and sets it back in the freezer—can’t let it get too warm—and pulls the knife out of her back pocket. The hitch in Kara’s breath is audible, blue eyes darkening. 

Alex approaches, flipping the blade out. She’s got a head start on that buzz. 

"Happy birthday to me."


End file.
